[Ed: A week after the fact.]
I got what I wanted for my most recent birthday: I went home from the hospital.
Emily went out and rented a wheelchair from one of the local chemists. Wheels: $3/day. Hooning around your own living room: priceless.
Later in the afternoon the rest of the Byrne clan arrived, bearing gifts: a new board game, which reminded me somewhat of Ticket to Ride; a couple of new books by Terry Pratchett, neither of which I’d read yet; spanakopita and roast beetroot for dinner, and chocolate mousse for dessert. Chocolate moooOOOuuusse. Not much left to say, or to wish for, really.
They stuck around until bedtime. Then they left, except Emily. And then there were snuggles.
It was only a couple of birthdays ago that, while I liked Emily’s parents, I was still very conscious of them being my partner’s parents. I feel fortunate, first of all to have an Emily in my life, and second, to have been so thoroughly adopted by her folks that I no longer so much as bat an eyelash at them tromping over with food and coffee and good times, even when Emily’s not around. (Though of course I say thank you.)